The bedroom door banged open with zero warning or respect for privacy. Time froze.
Logan stood in the doorway, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that looked suspiciously like jealousy. Nolan appeared behind him, his captain face firmly in place but his eyes sharp with interest and something darker.
Mira was still suspended above me, our bodies pressed together in ways that definitely looked more intimate than thetechnical exercise it actually was. My hands were on her waist. Her legs were positioned around my torso for balance. We were both breathing hard from exertion.
This looked really, really bad.
"Um," Logan said eloquently.
"Interesting concussion monitoring techniques," Nolan added, his voice carefully neutral.
"Blake," Mira said very calmly from her position above me. "You can put me down now."
I lowered her carefully, trying to salvage some dignity from this disaster, but there was no way to make this look less compromising than it was. Mira stepped away with as much poise as possible for someone who'd just been caught in an extremely suggestive position at what was probably 5 AM.
"It's not what it looks like," I said, which was possibly the weakest defense in human history.
"It looks like you were doing partner lifts in your bedroom at dawn," Logan said. "With our housemate. While allegedly concussed."
"I was teaching him about trust," Mira said, her spine straight and her dignity somehow intact. "Biomechanics of partner work. It's relevant to team dynamics."
"At 5 AM," Nolan repeated.
"Blake's concussion required overnight monitoring," Mira said crisply. "We were discussing trust in athletic partnerships. One thing led to another."
Logan made a choking sound. Nolan's eyebrow rose.
"Not like that!" Mira's face turned red. "I meant the conversation led to demonstration. Professional demonstration. Of technical skills. That required physical positioning."
She was making this worse. We were both making this worse.
"Blake's concussion symptoms have resolved sufficiently," Mira announced, gathering her medical supplies with brisk efficiency. "My monitoring is complete. Thank you for your cooperation, Blake."
She marched out of the room with her spine straight and her head high, leaving three hockey players staring at each other in charged silence.
"So," Logan said eventually. "Anyone else confused, or is that just me?"
Nolan said nothing, but his expression suggested he was having thoughts he wasn't ready to voice.
I sat on my bed, my head still pounding—though now probably more from emotional overwhelm than actual head trauma—and wondered what exactly had just happened and how everything had gotten so complicated so quickly.
Chapter 7: Mira
The dynamic in the hockey house shifted overnight from uncomfortable cohabitation to something I could only describe as "competitive courting" and it was absolutely mortifying.
I noticed it immediately the morning after Blake's concussion monitoring incident. I woke up to find expensive coffee and a bakery box outside my door, accompanied by a note written in elaborate calligraphy that had to have taken Logan at least twenty minutes to perfect.
For the performance specialist who makes even the most anxious goalie believe in his own potential. Also, you were right about my glove hand positioning—I owe you approximately seventeen goals' worth of gratitude. Also, you look really pretty when you're analyzing game footage and don't realize anyone's watching.
—L
I stared at the note, then at the artisanal coffee that was still warm, then back at the note. This was actually happening.
The bakery box contained a chocolate croissant that probably cost more than my entire meal plan budget for the week. It was perfect—flaky, rich, exactly the kind of indulgent breakfast I would never buy for myself.
I ate it while standing in my room, trying to figure out what the appropriate response to expensive baked goods and poetry-adjacent notes from your goalie was.
I came up with nothing.
